


The Griffons of Weisshaupt

by thesecondseal



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games)
Genre: griffons
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-22
Updated: 2015-05-22
Packaged: 2018-03-31 16:02:01
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 2,852
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3984169
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thesecondseal/pseuds/thesecondseal
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Lottery award for the lovely Cerulione on tumblr. She requested a background/origin story for her oc Pouncebeak, one of the griffon hatchlings found in 9:42 by the warden-recruit Valya. A bit of wiggling was done with the timeline (we placed the hatchlings being brought to Weisshaupt at the beginning of that year and the events of Adamant late in that year, working from Gaider's comment that the entirety of Inquisition took place over three).</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Weisshaupt

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Cerulione (Cerulion)](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=Cerulione+%28Cerulion%29).



In southern Anderfels, Weisshaupt Fortress sprawled on the edge of a jagged butte aptly called Broken Tooth. The arid steppes were sharp and angry, and did little to support life, with soil that was rich only in darkspawn. The Anders were a hardy, self-sufficient people, skilled in scraping out a life despite their environment. Even the youngest among them were warriors in training. Wardens without the taint, but some with even greater reason to fight.

It was a stark contrast to Fereldan, the impact of which never waned for Alistair.

He was not looking forward to his visit to the fortress, but then, he rarely did. Even the briefest visit was packed with politics and bureaucracy, and too much imperative that he mind his manners, watch his mouth, and generally behave as a faded version of himself just to make the whole blighted thing go as smoothly and quickly as possible. He was dreading the constant interaction, but when Alistair arrived at Weisshaupt,the yard was oddly devoid of wardens or staff. For a moment, he was worried, but the guards on duty did not appear distressed with the fortress’s apparent state of abandonment.

Alistair rode through to the stable. When no one came to take his horse, he frowned.

“Looks like we don’t warrant much attention these days,” he said to his weary mount before leading the mare inside and untacking her himself.

It had been a long journey. They both needed some good food, fresh water, and a good night’s sleep. Alistair settled the mare in a stall, then grabbed his gear, trudging toward the main keep. A bath, he thought, was in short order. If he was lucky, given the lateness of the evening, he could avoid his duties until morning.

“Alistair!”

The young woman’s voice bounced through the empty courtyard as she rushed toward him, steps slapping against the stone. Alistair blinked against the sharp rays of sunset.

“Brady?” he asked, as her silhouette slowly came into focus.

“Braden now,” she corrected with a grin, drawing up short. “It’s been a long time. I wasn’t sure you’d recognize me.”

He almost hadn’t. A long time was only a handful of years, but the girl-child who had lurked around the stable toting hay, hauling water, and begging him for stories of the Hero of Ferelden was now nearly grown. She was a foot taller than when last her saw her, and that was the least dramatic of the differences.  Her eyes turned wary and he wondered how differently she had been treated since her body changed.

“You’ll always be the same kid to me,” Alistair told her, reaching to ruffle the short mop of her blonde hair.  “And if I need to remind anyone of that, you let me know.”

“Nah,” she smiled, green eyes lighting with too much relief. “I’m good. I can bust my own heads, just didn’t want one of them to be yours. Not when I come with news I can’t wait to give you.”

She had his curiosity and if he remembered correctly, Braden could spin a story like a fisherman.

“What is it?” he asked, interest knocking the dust of his journey from him as surely as the bath he’d been longing for.

Alistair shifted his pack into a more secure grip.

“There are thirteen griffon hatchlings in the old eyrie,” Braden announced boldly. “Not a one bearing the taint.”

A more suspicious person would have doubted. Would have written the declaration off as a hoax, but in spite of everything he had been through, Alistair Theirin still clung desperately to hope and wonder.

And he hadn’t realized it until that moment.

His gear clattered to the ground. “Can I see them?” he asked in a hushed whisper.

Braden grinned. “Papa’s the roostmaster,” she said proudly, holding out her hand. “Come on.”

Alistair eyed the easy, open affection. “Don’t ever change, Braden.”

He slipped his hand in hers.

“We all change,” she said sagely. “These hatchlings…Alistair…”

She sighed. “They’re going to change everything. Are you sure you’re ready?”


	2. Eyrie

The eyrie was a tall, grey tower; the curved walls rose twice as high as the surrounding fortress. The stones were old, and held within them the treasured memories of a thousand flights. But it had been silent for too long, and none who lived remembered the rustle of grooming beaks, boom of flight feathers, or the scratch of talons on the sharpening blocks.

She remembered, without having been there, the war cries of the battlemasters. She remembered, without ever having met her, the warm golden scent of the sun in her mother’s feathers, the rumbling purr of her father’s love. There was magic in the memories of griffons. Their hearts knew what it was to soar high above the clouds long before their small bodies grew into winged warriors.

They were the promises of the gods’ retribution. They were a blaze of razor sharp and beating wings. They were—

“..the cutest things I’ve ever seen!”

Pouncebeak sighed, frustrated when the exasperated sound emerged as an adorable chirp. The girl was back. She meant well, the hatchling thought. And she could certainly reach the best places to scratch along a griffon’s spine, but the human child seemed incapable to treating Pouncebeak and her siblings with the gravitas they deserved. Pounce watched as Braden dropped down to the eyrie floor, heedless of any mess the others might have made. Her brothers and sisters swarmed the roostmaster’s daughter, crawling into her lap and clambering up her body in search of the love and affection she so easily gave them.

“Just look at their little eaglet heads,” Braden cooed, rubbing her lips across the sparsely feathered fluff atop Broadtail’s grey head. “And their little claws, and kitty feet!”

Pounce tried to hide her disdain as her brother obligingly extended one small black paw for Braden to impulsively kiss.

“Don’t just stand there,” Braden continued to the tall, silent man whom she had brought with her.  “They love the attention.”

But the man did not rush into the eyrie like his companion. He stood just inside the now closed door, his eyes wide with awe and soft with reverence.  He smiled slightly at the tumble of griffon hatchlings and human, then he slowly lowered his gaze to where Pouncebeak stood, aloof and apart.

“Oh,” the whisper was just shy of a gasp as he met her lofty stare. “You are a fierce beauty.”

Pounce lifted her beak, lowered it once in acknowledgement of his adoration. The man dropped to his knees before her, hands resting on lightly on his thighs, not threatening the indignities Pounce’s siblings seemed to enjoy.

“I’m Alistair,” he said quietly. “And I have been waiting my entire life for the miracle that you are.” 


	3. Alistair

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After the events of Adamant, Alistair returns to Weisshaupt.

Nearly two years passed before Alistair saw Pouncebeak again. The man who returned to Weisshaupt was even quieter than before. Blood and sacrifice clung to his feet, weighing him down. He trudged across the courtyard, gear slung across his back. He had maintained correspondence with Braden in his time away. She faithfully kept him informed on the hatchlings growth and development. There had been months when only the cheerful tone of her letters could dull the ache of wounds, both old and new.

He had lost a good friend at Adamant, and Thedas had lost a fine warrior. Alistair was soul weary. He had watched too many good people fall to darkness and nightmare. He carried heart wounds of war veterans twice his age, his life’s purpose dwindling to the inevitable wait for his Calling.

“Alistair!”

Braden’s voice pulled him from the ever-clinging shadows of his past. She all but skipped across the courtyard, hair flying like a pennant behind her, face beaming.

“I’m so glad you’re here.”

She threw herself into his arms, and the solid weight of her undemanding friendship centered him.

“I’m sure you’re worn out,” she continued. “And if you want to wait until later you can but—“

She trailed off and he mustered a smile.

“The eyrie,” he finished the thought for her and Braden grinned.

“You have to see them,” she said, falling in beside him. “They are a wonder.”

Her voice dropped to a whisper. “Broadtail took me flying last night. Papa would strangle me and try to make Broad choose another partner, if he knew, so shhh.”

Alistair chuckled. He knew from her letters that nearly all of the young griffons had bonded with one of the wardens. All but two, Broadtail, the largest male who had chosen Braden with a near violent disregard for all others and Pouncebeak, the golden hatchling whose haughty stare had wrapped Alistair firmly around her talons the day they met.

“If he’s as big as you’ve said,” Alistair said. “You can’t possibly be a burden to him.”

When full grown, the griffons could reach up to twelve feet, beak to tail, but even if they weren’t quite there, Braden’s small, wiry form would not be taxing.

“I’m not,” she agreed. “Especially without that ridiculous saddle they’re all training to use.”

Alistair stared at her for a moment.

“Your father is going to kill you,” he said, torn between laughter and reprimand.

Braden’s grin broadened and a cheeky laugh spilled from her lips. “I’ll probably fall to my death first.”

He dropped his gear by the door of the tower. One of the guards helpfully offered to have it taken to his room. Alistair frowned thoughtfully. “His room,” not one of the bunk rooms. It felt odd to be calling the place home. He thanked the guard and followed Braden. Stephane, Braden’s father and the eyrie’s roostmaster, stood just inside.

“Did you tell him?” he asked Braden.

Alistair didn’t hear her answer to discern what they were speaking of. He stared up into the eerily silent body of the tower, mesmerized by the contrast of sunlight as it angled sharply through the clear glass dome to pierce the darkness within the cool stone walls. Roosts and ledges were set into the curving walls. Within the alcoves that had once held a hundred griffons, thirteen fledglings had made their homes. He could make out a dozen pairs of curious eyes as they stared down from their perches.

Alistair barely registered Braden’s hand slipping into his.

“Come on," she said. "You’ll want to be beside me for this.”

“Careful, girl,” he father warned. “You’re their clutchmate, they may not take as kindly to the warden.”

But Braden was already dragging Alistair behind her. When they reached the center of the hard-packed dirt floor, she released his hand. Alistair watched as she tipped back her head, cupping both of her hands around her mouth to direct the most peculiar ululating sound he had ever heard issue from a person’s mouth.

With a rage of high pitched screeches, the entire roost took flight above them one by one. Alistair stared in mute wonder as they spiraled slowly down toward him and Braden. Broadtail led the pride, his wings a majestic span of shimmering darkness in the dimly lit tower. His eyes flashed, icy and grey. He spread his claws, talons glinting in a menacing display that only earned him Braden’s laughter.

“He’s one of the good ones,” she called up to the griffon, tucking her hand in the crook of Alistair’s arm.

The snort with which Broadtail answered his lady was metallic, but Alistair ceased to feel the press of distrust that had preceded the griffon’s decent.

Broadtail landed, his feet and claws touching down so lightly he barely made a sound. Braden—still clinging to Alistair’s arm—leaned toward the griffon. Her face and neck were vulnerably exposed as she pressed her cheek to Broadtail’s dark, pearlescent beak. The brute purred at her, and a soft chuffing sound drifted down from the griffons above them.

“We all do well,” Stephane called across the eyrie. “To remember that she is one of them.”

Alistair smiled. Good, he thought. Growing up at Weisshaupt couldn’t have been easy for her.

The griffons spiraled down, one after the other, each alighting before Braden to give and receive some sort of affectionate greeting. Alistair stood respectfully at her side, never presuming the same. Braden introduced him to each one and he nodded gravely to those who bothered to meet his gaze, lowering his chin in deference to the most beautiful creatures he had ever seen. Their coats shone with good health, feathers, talons, and beaks gleaming in an array of warm, earthy hues, and glimmering white.

“Where’s Pouncebeak?” he asked.

Braden smiled. “Wait for her.”


	4. Pouncebeak

She drifted down on golden wings. The long, slow arcs of her spiral carried her through the brightest shafts of sunlight, shading her short coat to burnished ochre.  Her eyes gleamed like molten bronze, framed by white feathers so bright and fine, they shimmered like prisms. Pouncebeak was the largest female in her pride, and as they were orphaned, this made her clutch-mother as surely as Broadtail was roost-father. She knew that she was a glorious sight to behold, and she knew it without vanity. It was important that she and Broadtail stand out from the others.

It was important that they bond with those who would ensure the safety of their pride and the future of their line. Broadtail had chosen well with Braden. The human-woman-child was loving and fierce. Her instincts made up for generations of griffon absence, and her dedication to study was a worthy thing. She learned more and more every day and she would make a fine roostmaster in her father’s place when the Calling finally claimed him. That she was born before he took on the taint was just another joy. If they could keep Braden from joining the wardens she would stand with them for several generations of griffons.

The others had chosen nearly as well. The griffons’ alliance with the wardens would be strong; they would slay many darkspawn together. Stephane and Braden worried that she had not yet chosen a partner. She met all advances with aggression, garnering a dangerous reputation that would only stand her well in time. They didn’t realize that her violence was a tool, that her brothers and sisters needed her ferocity. That her bonded would have to be a creature of metal and great heart.

She stared down her beak at the quiet man below. His spirit was as she remembered it, though there was an even greater sadness in his heart than there had been. Pouncebeak had pinned her childish hopes on her memories of him, but she would have to test him. Alistair, she thought with affection. The man could be one with whom she might travel and fight and learn. She almost hated to test him, but it could not be avoided. If he were not for her, she would need to look for another and sooner rather than later.

Pouncebeak drew in a sharp whistling breath, gathered her back legs and extended her front, talons reaching as she dove with an angry screech.

She heard the warden roostmaster swear. He had come to fear her in the passing years. Braden lunged toward Alistair as if her small body could stop Pouncebeak's charge. It was to the child’s credit, she thought, gently but firmly pushing Braden back toward Broad with a casual swipe of her back paw. She made certain her brother had the girl in wing before she dropped heavily onto Alistair, knocking him prone and standing over him with every ounce of menace she possessed. Her eyes narrowed, membranes flicking eerily as she pressed him to the ground with one claw covering his chest. She was not yet at full size, but she was easily five times his weight and her talons were at least as sharp as his sword. Pouncebeak thrust her face inches from his, her beak a weapon that could shred flesh and break bone with ease.

His wide eyes were amber, she noticed a beat before she realized he wasn’t fighting her. His body was tense and wary beneath her considerable weight, but he did not respond with anger or fear. She stood over him, wings extended, crowding into his space, foot pressing him into the ground.  He simply lay beneath her, but not in submission. No. Not him. He had stood against too much.

He was just…waiting.

She growled at him, pressed her forehead to his in a display of aggression that had terrified—with good reason—every person who had come before him. Alistair gazed up at her, a rapt expression on his haggard face.

“You would be a beautiful death,” he whispered softy, reaching slowly for the feathers on her cheek. “But I am not ready for that yet.”

Pouncebeak blinked curiously at him.

“Shall you and I be friends?” he asked.

His fingers were trembling, but it was from wonder, not fear, Pounce realized. She accepted the gentle touch with stalwart grace and he was smart enough not to laugh at her when she pressed her face against his hand and purred.


End file.
